


Run, Run, Run

by scarletbegonias37



Category: The Boys in the Band (2020), The Boys in the Band - Crowley (Broadway 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletbegonias37/pseuds/scarletbegonias37
Summary: Wrote this Donald & Michael prequel in a fever dream to satisfy my own headcanon about their history and the way they feel about each other, and for the three other Donald & Michael shippers out there rooting for these guys to get it together someday.
Relationships: Donald/MIchael, Hank/Larry (Boys in the Band), Michael/Harold
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	Run, Run, Run

When they first met Michael couldn’t believe it. Donald was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life, like a vision, almost unreal. He immediately knocked back another double shot. There was no way he’d be able to approach this man -- who was very casually leaning against the wall at Julius’s batting his piercing blue eyes at Michael without any particular guile or agenda -- and tell him that he looked like an angel chiseled from marble by an ancient Greek master and Michael would very much like to do a million perverse things to him and vice versa that would have him both screaming for God and in church repenting for it the next day – not unless he was as hammered as he could possibly be.

Of course, after God knows how many more drinks, that’s exactly what he ended up doing.

Donald was in his first year of graduate school at NYU, pursuing a master’s degree in English, with some thoughts of becoming a professor someday, though he seemed a little vague about his motivations. He had a little apartment in the city -- nothing special, God knew, but it was private and quiet on a side street and it was his and Michael could touch every part of his incredible body and be touched everywhere by him there and _oh God_.

Michael noticed the books right away, of course. There wasn’t much else in the apartment beyond the bare necessities. Donald clearly came from at least a middle-class background – he had no style or taste in clothes, of course, but he had a car, and a stereo, and mounds of books everywhere, on every shelf and in every corner, stacked on the floor wherever the eye landed. It was a little weird, but hell, as compulsive habits went, there were surely worse ones. Most of which Michael himself possessed.

The first time they – Michael didn’t know what to call it then and maybe he still didn’t now – Michael pulled the old “Christ am I drunk” routine and skedaddled out of there. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that, certainly wouldn’t be the last. But this one felt a little different.

Donald had shaken him. He’d looked deeply into Michael’s eyes as they – _Christ was I drunk_ – and he’d touched Michael so tenderly. Slowly. He wasn’t in a rush. It wasn’t like it was with a lot of guys, and Michael became more unsettled as he pondered it and realized what it meant.

Donald knew he was homosexual, and worse yet, he’d accepted it. He wasn’t trying to change it. Beyond the obvious requirements of not flaunting it publicly in the street or calling up his mother and announcing it, he didn’t seem to care about trying to hide it or deny it, at least not to himself.

Michael, on the other hand, cared very much.

He was beginning to accept that this wasn’t just a youthful phase for him. He’d been going into the city to explore the bars since a schoolmate dropped him a hint about them in his sophomore year. There were bars in D.C. too, of course, but that was the deal – the boys from New York came down to D.C. on the weekends, hopping on the 5 p.m. train. The boys from D.C. took the train in the opposite direction, hopping off in Philadelphia, New York, or Boston if they felt they needed to be even further from anyone from home that they might run into.

And sure, he’d had the experimental time or two with a friend even before those days. But that was just…what all young men did, wasn’t it? Practicing? Exploring their bodies in a safe way that wouldn’t lead to pregnancy or the ruination of the good reputations of the nice girls they were all publicly dating?

But, once is curiosity, twice is youth. After several times…well, you’ve got to admit you like it. And it had been a lot more than several times for Michael at the point he met Donald.

Donald scared him, if he was being honest. Touching another man was scary enough. Touching another man who clearly wanted to be touched and wasn’t closing his eyes and pretending something else was happening…was terrifying.

And yet…if that was the case, then why did Michael find himself contriving to go back to the same bar he’d seen Donald in before, as soon as he had the opportunity? The first two times he went back, Donald wasn’t there. And oddly, though there were plenty of other very attractive men present – just like any other night at that bar, really – Michael decided for some reason to go back to his hotel alone those nights, even though he’d never done so in any previous trip he’d made to the city.

When he saw Donald again on his third visit back, he acted like it was his first time back. It’s possible Donald saw through him when he claimed that, though, given the slight quirk of his smile.

Was it supposed to mean something that this time Michael proactively asked him if he’d be there next Saturday? That on that next Saturday, he asked for Donald’s phone number? That they started actually calling each other and meeting on purpose? That some nights they didn’t even go to the bar first? Just straight to Donald’s place?

Surely not. It was just a matter of convenience. To relieve one’s desires with one person, in a private location, is safer than trolling in unsavory gentlemans’ clubs for various different companions, that’s all.

That’s what Michael told himself, anyway.

So what if Donald stroked his forehead while they lay in bed after – Michael tried hard not to think of it as _making love_ – and wrapped his arms around him and held him tight until he stopped shaking. So what if Donald made pancakes in the morning. So what if they talked about their childhoods and their future dreams sometimes, it was just conversation. So what if Donald rubbed his back and his feet when he was tired and they took showers together and started, without talking about it, sharing clothing, putting on each other’s shirts and robes and sweaters and scarves as they dressed after undressing, week after week, month stretching into months of them seeing each other.

Men don’t have – Michael couldn’t even bring himself to think the word _relationships_. He stuffed it down, down, down.

After that first time, Donald had always made Michael make the first physical move on him. He’d certainly flirt his ass off, mind you. He’d give Michael penetrating stares and lure him in. But he would not touch Michael until Michael touched him first. It drove Michael so crazy sometimes he ended up grabbing Donald and launching himself at him on the closest surface he could find. There weren’t too many surfaces left in Donald’s little apartment that they hadn’t covered at this point, which was making Michael realize that an awful lot of time was passing by for this to be something he could at least still consider a “tryst” and not a full blown, deliberate, ongoing romantic and sexual relationship with another man.

Fortunately Michael was already doing things, without even consciously planning to, to fuck it up. He’d made his first real damaging blow to the situation when he’d casually brought up Fran in conversation without ever happening to mention her existence before. He hadn’t even thought about it. He was just telling a story about the senior winter formal dance, where his friend Justin had naughtily regaled their coterie with a rather ribald joke about President Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe. The fellows’ dates all worshipped Jackie, of course, so it had caused quite a drama.

“Fran was fit to be tied”, Michael laughed. “I had to talk her down all night.”

Donald cocked his head. “Who’s Fran?”

“Oh, my girlfriend”, Michael said breezily, still not thinking anything of it, before realizing that Donald had frozen. “What?” Michael asked, genuinely curious for a moment before it registered.

Donald was actually hurt.

Michael didn’t know what to think. What in the world? Did Donald actually think they were…well, what did he think they were? Did he think there was some claim? Some future? That they would not both eventually have to say their goodbyes, find some decent and hopefully kind women to marry (whether they were all that excited about it or not), try to get it up enough times to pump out a couple of potential heirs, and hope their wives were understanding and didn’t ask too many questions about the occasional “trip into the city for business”?

Donald mumbled something about being suddenly tired, went to bed, turned to the wall and kept his back turned to Michael all night. Michael hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d gotten to, on these occasions, sleeping with Donald wrapped around him, one arm and leg thrown over him, his curly hair brushing Michael’s face as he nestled into Michael’s neck.

The bed didn’t feel nearly as comfortable as it usually did.

Things got a little colder after that. Easier to think about how to detach. Donald certainly didn’t seem to be trying very hard to keep the flame ignited, which should have made Michael feel relieved instead of numb and aching. Then again, Donald was an extremely passive person in general – which Michael had always felt was fine and even suited to him and his own admittedly pushy ways. But it didn’t help now, when Michael was flailing, looking for some kind of sign as to how to move forward and which way to go, and Donald was clearly letting him know that he was on his own and it was up to him to decide.

It didn’t really seem like much of a choice at all, from Michael’s perspective.

***

A few more years.

A few successful writing sales, and a few producing gigs as a result.

Trips to Milan. Paris. London. Los Angeles and the hills of Hollywood, many times, of course.

More men. No real intimacies, of course – no stroking of the forehead. No holding, except of the necessary body parts. But more release. More exploration. More.

A few more purchases on credit. A few more drinks. A few more mistakes.

More than a few more friends gained and lost. More than a few more business deals made and blown.

A few more bridges burned. A few more very important people who had his name on a “do not accept calls from” list given to their secretaries. A few more movies that bombed, and bombed hard. A few more failed pitches, and soon enough, a lot less offers, and a lot more time without the phone ringing.

Back to New York, then, to the dusty old apartment left to him in the will of an aunt who had taken her share of the family inheritance and fled the South permanently for the big Northern city, where she lived for many years with a rather mannish lady friend as a “roommate” and a passel of cats and plants until she died -- and who had perhaps suspected that one day her creative little nephew, whom she’d always had a special bond with for some reason that no one could explain, might also need a place to retreat to.

***

It took a long time before Michael worked up the nerve to call Donald, and Donald sounded quite surprised when he did. But of course, being the angel he always had been (it would have been a lot easier for Michael if he was a bastard, but then again, Michael would have never had this problem in the first place if he was), he agreed to meet Michael for a drink.

Down at Julius’s again. Perhaps the place would never really change. It was easier than Michael had hoped it might be. They smiled, laughed, reminisced, shared little stories. Donald had dropped out of graduate school at the final hour – he said he hadn’t had faith in the quality of his dissertation, but reading between the lines of how he explained it and knowing him as well as Michael did, Michael discerned that Donald had probably had a major anxiety attack before his thesis presentation and therefore failed to secure the degree. Donald was now doing odd jobs here and there – assisting at the library, doing a bit of administrative work for this or that professor, tutoring rich people’s children. Michael, of course, had lots of shallow adventures to catch Donald up on, so that helped the conversation from getting into any real depth. Except for one moment.

Michael had been telling a salacious story about a particular starlet who was known as America’s Sweetheart, but whom Michael knew to be a foul-mouthed, hard-partying nymphomaniac (he adored her for it) and Donald lost it; he laughed and laughed until tears sprang to his eyes, and as he was wiping them away, his eyes closed, he let out with genuine and innocent feeling, “oh Michael, I’ve missed you so much”.

Michael felt his heart sink beneath the floor. He had told himself it would just be nice to reconnect with an old friend; he’d repeated that to himself in his mind over and over again, as he thought about calling and finally picked up the phone to dial. And only now in this moment did he remember that, whatever secret little spark of hope had been fluttering in his heart while he did his best to deny its existence until now, Donald was not going to touch him unless Michael touched him first. The chasm across which he’d have to reach to do so seemed so wide, so tainted by time and fear and misunderstanding, that Michael suddenly understood that, after all that had happened between them and everything since, he could not bring himself to touch Donald first either. He was not worthy of Donald, never had been.

But Donald was still laughing, and looking at him with pure joy, so he forced a fond and flippant smile onto his face. Donald deserved so much more than Michael, who had nothing to give. But the very least Michael owed Donald, after all of his patience and forgiveness, was friendship and emotional support. He would give that to him, without any demands or requests for more, no matter if it crushed him.

***

After what seemed like another eternity, things changed a little. Donald would touch Michael…barely. A quick hug here. A caress on the cheek there, now and again. Michael tried to avoid it, to dodge his hands or move away swiftly without being obvious. It was excruciating agony, to have someone who loved you – platonically, Michael reminded himself, trying not to wallow in despair about it – try to give you physical comfort without understanding that the last thing you want them to do is touch you if they don’t mean it. If they don’t crave it, if they don’t long for it with every fiber in their being. If they aren’t practically vibrating every second you _don’t_ touch them.

Sometimes – honestly, a lot of the time – it felt like Donald was trying to tempt him. He certainly strutted around Michael’s apartment in various states of undress as often as he could, it seemed. But they were old friends who had seen it all, right? And these are the swinging Sixties, aren’t they, when we’re all supposed to be a bit freer, less uptight, more accepting of our natural animal selves?

Bullshit. Michael was dying. He couldn’t concentrate, so he couldn’t write, and the bills were stacking up. And Donald didn’t seem to be doing all that well either. His anxiety was getting visibly worse, he was taking more Valium, and he couldn’t find a therapist who could help – which wasn’t terribly surprising considering that all most psychoanalysts had to tell you was that all your problems were due to being gay and that it was your mother’s fault for feminizing you and all the rest of it. Michael didn’t see the point of paying good money for such treatment – he already had the Church to shame him while claiming to provide him solace, for free. He wanted to somehow comfort Donald or reassure him, but how, when his own life was in such goddamn shambles?

***

He didn’t do it entirely consciously, but Michael realized, eventually, that he was hoarding his time with Donald for himself and keeping him, for the most part, separate from most of his friend group. Part of that was for genuinely good reasons. Donald was shy and socially anxious and didn’t function that well in a group setting – and Michael’s close friends were a group of chatterboxes, to say the least. You had to battle just to get a word in with them, and Donald would have retreated from that in an instant. They could also be a bunch of mean girls when they all got together, and for some reason Michael felt like he needed to protect Donald from that. Not that anyone could find a flaw in Donald to pick on.

He did introduce Donald to Bernard, because he knew they’d get along like a house on fire, and they did. They were both bookworms, and as soon as Donald realized that, he lit up and actually talked. They chatted about this and that author for the rest of the night, and Michael just smiled happily, pleased with himself for having matchmade a real friendship.

He swatted down the nagging voice in his head telling him that it was rather easy to introduce Donald to the friend that he was so similar to that any kind of romantic or sexual spark between them was unlikely to pop off. And Donald wasn’t Bernard’s type anyway. (Bernard didn’t always go for white guys, but when he did, he liked them blonde and snooty – a tendency that Michael didn’t think was very healthy but opted not to probe into.)

Emory was Bernard’s bestie, so that connection eventually led to Donald and Emory meeting. Michael was more than a bit nervous about that one, because Emory was usually overwhelming even to people who weren’t introverted. But surprisingly, it turned out fine. Emory did give a smirk and a surreptitious wink to Michael when he saw how handsome Donald was, but bless his heart, he decided to play “sweet Emory” for the night and stick to being flirty and flattering, instead of doing what Michael had feared he might have done if he were in a different sort of playful mood (i.e., giving them the third degree about whether they were still fucking or not, and if not, WHY not).

And Donald found Emory amusing and was more than happy to have someone take center stage and entertain the group, allowing him to sit back and observe and laugh. So, great. Two friends down…but the two to go were going to be a lot more challenging.

Harold hated Donald, and Michael could never figure out quite why. Harold hated pretentious people, but Donald was as down to earth as they get, so that wasn’t it. And Harold wasn’t a warm person in general, but his vibe after sitting at a table with Donald for 10 minutes was downright glacial.

Donald didn’t seem to be having all that much fun either, and his eyes widened, though he seemed to be attempting to repress the alarm in them, when Harold and Michael settled into their usual routine of making acerbic, witty, semi-insulting remarks about all the strangers in the room, trying to top each other for shadiness. It took Michael longer than it should have to figure out why Donald was reacting that way: he’d never acted like that in front of Donald, and Donald clearly didn’t like it. Was he really such a different person with each of the two people he currently considered to be the most important in his life, that he couldn’t make them come together and get along for one evening?

Apparently not. Donald stayed only as long as could be reasonably considered polite and then made his excuses to go home, claiming he had important appointments the next day. Michael knew perfectly well that all Donald had to do tomorrow was read a stack of books and perhaps go see the therapist he was probably having an affair with. Harold barely acknowledged Donald’s departing with a wave of his hand, none of the usual social pleasantries about it having been nice to meet, we should do this again sometime, blah blah blah. But that was Harold for you. If it wasn’t true, he didn’t say it.

“Is the waitress coming with our next round of drinks, or has she _died_?” Harold craned his neck elegantly, pulling a cigarette out and tapping it against the silver case.

“What was that all about?” Michael asked pointedly, gesturing toward the direction Donald had left in. “You acted like he smelled bad or something.”

“He most certainly did not smell bad,” Harold allowed, lighting up his smoke. “He smelled like your cologne, which I’m surprised you share since I’m given to understand it is exorbitantly expensive.”

“He tries my things on sometimes. So what? Listen, he’s perfectly nice and I don’t know why you were so cold to him just now.”

“Well if you want the nurturing warmth of a maternal breast, I’m sorry to inform you that I have no experience of such and thus none to offer. But as you know, Michael, I always have something nice to say about everyone.” Harold sat back and pretended to ponder it, blowing out a long string of smoke. “He has interesting hair,” he said after a long pause.

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Is that all you have to say?” Michael huffed.

Harold laughed a little. “Oh, Michael, what do you _want_ me to say? He looks like a Disney prince and he has the personality of one as well,” he said reassuringly. Michael started to smile smugly before Harold added dryly: “Two dimensional.”

“You are goddamn impossible to please,” Michael sighed with frustration, knocking back the dregs of his drink.

“I don’t think I’m the one that’s looking for pleasure out of this scenario,” Harold arched his eyebrows. “Really, Michael, I just don’t see why you’re putting yourself through this. Former lovers do not make good close friends.”

“ _You and I_ are former lovers!” Michael whispered, gesturing between them. Even if it was a gay bar, he probably shouldn’t yell it out.

“Exactly my point,” Harold tilted his head at him. “But the difference is, _we_ mutually decided our romantic attachment was dysfunctional and determined that we’d be better off pursuing a friendship – together. Meanwhile, _you_ are clearly pining for _him_ like the heroine of a Douglas Sirk movie waiting for the manly love interest to give in to his passion and ravish her. And I’m sorry to tell you, my dear, but that ‘perfectly nice’ man who just walked out of here, while he is just as handsome as all of your matinee idol dreams, does not strike me as the ravishing kind.”

Michael was fuming, but bit his tongue for the moment, since the waitress had finally arrived and was setting down their drinks.

“Excuse me, miss?” Harold called after her. “I think my friend received the wrong cocktail. He ordered a Rhett Butler, but he got an Ashley Wilkes.”

“What kind of a drink is a Rhett Butler?” the waitress stopped in her tracks, confused.

“Nevermind!” Harold waved with a smile, then turned back to give Michael a pointed look. “He’s determined to drink it anyway, it seems.”

“Oh, shut up,” Michael said hotly.

“Whatever you say, Miss Scarlett,” Harold shot back in an exaggerated Southern accent.

Fine. Harold had said his piece and he was the queen bee of the group, so no group outings or invitations. Donald wouldn’t be invited to the Fire Island get-together this summer either. Whatever. Maybe Michael wouldn’t even go to Fire Island this year. He was getting too old for that anyway. Maybe he’d ask Donald to go somewhere together, just the two of them – no. That was way too obvious. He’d just go on vacation alone, like he always did, maybe somewhere overseas or on the West Coast. If he could scrape together the money. His last movie check was running out faster than it should have.

But on the upside – Donald’s failure to win over Harold meant that Michael didn’t have to look into his intentions to spend more one-on-one time with Donald too closely, right?

Because, he had to admit, it was awfully convenient to stop trying to introduce Donald to his friends before he got to Larry.

It was a given that any man you introduced to Larry was likely to wind up on his endless list of conquests eventually. He wasn’t a total jerk about it. If it was someone you directly told him was your current exclusive lover or someone you were trying to make your current exclusive lover, he’d back off. But only until you said you were done with the guy. And if Larry asked, wouldn’t Michael have to admit that he and Donald were long since done, and had never been exclusive to begin with?

He wasn’t sure if Larry was Donald’s type, but honestly, the odds weren’t in his favor there. Larry was just about everyone’s type and vice versa. He was fit and hot in a cute and friendly way that made people feel comfortable around him. He exuded charm. He could also be a real bitch, but only his close friends got to see that part. The men he pursued only ever saw his winning smiles and sweet talk and soft subtle touches on their arm or leg. Sometimes they found themselves in his bed (or the nearest bathroom stall or coat closet) before they even knew how they got there.

Michael had gotten used to Larry’s ways a long time ago and it wasn’t all that bad to be his friend. There were definitely perks to it. Many was the night that Larry had flirted extensively with about a half-dozen handsome young studs only to have to finally choose one to disappear with and leave five behind, horny and looking for an alternate. Michael had benefited at times.

But, the idea of trying to maneuver between and keep Larry from getting Donald into a quiet corner if they ever met was distressing.

Fortunately, Larry was really Harold’s friend first, and thus the antipathy between Harold and Donald eliminated a lot of possible meetings. And Larry was busy these days anyway. A while back he’d been scarce for months and months, only to turn up and admit that one of the married men he’d been having an affair with had, to everyone’s surprise, up and left his wife, and was now shacked up with Larry. Their friends – hell, every guy in town -- had had a field day gossiping about that: _Larry_ , of all people, caught in a live-in relationship with a guy who’d actually called his “what are you gonna do, leave your wife?” bluff?! It was the laugh of the season!

Having subsequently met the guy, Michael could see how Larry had found himself in such a mess. Hank was kind of uptight – unsurprisingly, given his situation with his angry ex-wife, the kids he barely got to see, and the physics teaching job he’d lose if the superintendent ever got wind of any of it – but he was kind, intelligent, and grounded, not to mention gorgeous, tall, dark, and brooding. Your typical Rock Hudson-esque fantasy. The vibrations between him and Larry, though fraught with other tensions, also indicated that the sex was probably explosive. So, that was Larry taken care of and off the party circuit for a while. They’d probably see him more in another year or so, when the romantic excitement of a stud like that leaving his wife for you wore off, and he started really chafing about having accidentally gotten himself a husband who expects his wife to stay home and have dinner on the table at the end of a long day. Michael didn’t see Larry reacting so well to that one. It might not even take a year.

So there it was, Michael and Donald on their own. Going to the cinema and theater, to museums and art galleries and poetry readings. Walking in Central Park. Going up to Harlem with Bernard and Emory to go dancing at some secret underground integrated Afro-Latin speakeasy Emory knows about. Donald’s awkward attempt to learn to dance the merengue with Emory, laughing, his messy curls falling in his eyes, and Michael’s heart pounding so loud he can barely hear the music. Michael’s been drinking and shopping less and reading more of the books that Donald leaves lying around. The leaves are starting to turn colors in the New York autumn and it’s starting to feel like something a little bit different than just a friendship again. One night, instead of going back to his own apartment, Donald falls asleep in Michael’s bed while they’re talking late at night, and Michael just watches him, afraid to close his own eyes, trying to be as still as possible so he won’t wake up and leave.

***

There was only one slip, and had Michael been a betting man (gambling was one of the few addictions he COULDN’T claim), he definitely would have bet wrong. He would have surely thought he’d be the one to cross the line.

It was a Friday evening, and Donald had just been sacked from his most lucrative tutoring job – his primary source of income – because he’d had a sudden anxiety attack in front of the students, and had taken his emergency Valium in front of them with shaking hands. If the scanty details Michael had gleaned from Donald about it were correct (Donald was never very forthcoming when he was upset), the kids’ patriarchal bigot of a father had basically had a fit and told their mother that he could no longer have some nervous nelly teaching their children how to understand Shakespeare and Chaucer.

Michael felt for him. He could practically hear the old fart in his head: _what kind of a MAN teaches POETRY for a living, anyway, Judith?!?_

So, here was Donald laid out on Michael’s couch as though he was at the therapist, swirling a straight vodka on the rocks in a glass in his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. “Let’s just talk about something else. What are you up to for the rest of the weekend?”

Michael groaned and walked over to the bar to refill his drink. “Ugh. Emory wants me to go to the baths with him tomorrow night. I haven’t been able to think of an excuse to get out of it yet.”

Donald stiffened up a little at that. After a brief pause, he asked casually, looking down into his own beverage, “Do you really need an excuse?”

Michael turned to give him an exasperated look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Donald looked slightly judgmental, and Michael felt his irritation growing. “I’m just saying…” Donald took a breath, then added neutrally, “Do you ever really have fun there?”

Michael plunked a final piece of ice into his glass and turned to unscrew the bottle, trying not to let frustration seep into his voice. “It’s fun enough. And what, you’re trying to pretend you _don’t_ go to the baths? Come on,” Michael rolled his eyes at him.

“I don’t really go anymore,” Donald said a bit defensively, then softened and admitted, “I mean, I guess I went a few months ago. But it had been a long time before that.”

“Don’t tell me your therapist has gotten to you with all that ‘all your burdens are due to your promiscuous gay lifestyle’ garbage,” Michael gave him a look. “I already have enough Catholic guilt of my own, Donald, I can’t add yours on top of mine. I’m only going to keep Emory from hitting on the brawniest and most obvious members of the vice squad, anyway. I can’t afford to bail him out again.” He clapped his drink down on the table sharply. Why was Donald picking at him?

“I’m not saying it’s not a good time – I guess. I just…I had forgotten how grimy and greasy it is in there. It’s not exactly the most romantic location. You’re trying to get into a mood and all you can see is 100 other guys’ fluids circling the drain in whatever disgusting corner room you’re in. I’d prefer to be in my own nice clean bed, but it’s not like you can ask any of these guys to meet you there without risking robbery,” Donald frowned.

“Please don’t tell me you’re looking for _romance_ at the baths, Donald,” Michael barked a short laugh, though he wasn’t finding this conversation funny at all. In fact, he was getting a little itchy around the collar, feeling sweat pool there. He tugged at his neckline a bit. Was it hot in here? He tried not to think about his memories of how Donald preferred to be in a bed. He also suddenly noticed how unclean his own apartment was. A whole batch of cobwebs was lingering in the corner above Donald’s head.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for!” Donald threw his hands up a bit. “That’s why I stopped going. The last time I went, I met a guy, he was alright. Cute. Seemed nice.” Michael felt his stomach curdling. “But…I just feel like, I’m getting too old for it. I didn’t even exchange names with him. What am I supposed to do if I see him around again now? Say hey, would you like to get a drink sometime and get to know me? He’s already had his dick in my mouth.”

“I didn’t need to hear ALL the details,” Michael said, hoping he sounded more droll than bitter.

“Well, I’m just saying it’s not as fun as it used to be,” Donald said a bit stiffly, and leaned his mouth against his fist, slumping against the side of the couch as he looked out at the drizzling rain. Fall was fading and the winter was really setting in now, and the city was gloomy and dark already at this time of the evening. Maybe that’s what had Donald in such a low mood, Michael thought. _If it bothers you so much, just say so and I won’t go_ , he thought, but he bit his tongue before he could say it. That offer both implied and presumed too much.

“I don’t know,” Donald added after a long silence, sighing slightly. “Maybe I’m having such trouble figuring out what to do with my life because every vision I have for what I want seems impossible.”

The heat rash kept growing on Michael’s neck. He didn’t know where this conversation was going, but it didn’t seem good. “What _is_ it that you want, Donald?” he asked gently, feeling like he could hear his heartbeat hammering in his eardrums.

Donald didn’t answer right away, just sighed again, more deeply this time. He was in a funk, alright. Michael inhaled and exhaled deeply, took a deep drink from his glass, and paced the room a bit. He looked out of the window at the rain too, zoning out.

“Do you ever see that old pair that come into Julius’s on Sundays?” Donald said finally, snapping Michael back to attention.

“What?” Michael started. “Oh. I guess so. Sure.” He shrugged. He knew exactly who Donald meant. They were a quiet old couple, and they’d been coming into the bar for years, but only on Sundays in the late afternoon. Michael had never seen them anywhere else around the city, ever.

Donald rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip, and propped up his right leg across his left one. His right foot twitched nervously. “Do you think they’re lovers, or sisters?” he asked, without looking away from the window.

Michael spun around on him and turned back just as quickly, snorting “Well, they’re not lovers _anymore_. They’re ancient. Both of them would have to put a splint on it to get it up.” He could feel Donald’s steely aggravation with him making light of the question from behind his back. He cast a glance over his shoulder, apologetic, and conceded, “But yes, I’m sure that somewhere back in the Biblical Era they were lovers for a time.”

Donald turned his face toward the window again. After a long pause, he said “I don’t see how it would be so bad.” Michael busied himself with dusting and rearranging the shelves as Donald spoke. “Would it be so terrible, to just live with a partner like anybody else? Go to work, come home, make dinner. What else does society want us to do, anyway? Keep going to the baths until we die?” Donald shrugged, and leaned further against the couch.

“What are you ON about anyway, Donald?” Michael huffed. “What’s your point?” Donald must really be in a bad mental space if he was yammering on about things that were illegal and ridiculous like this.

Donald started a bit, alarmed at Michael’s sudden sharp shift in tone. “I didn’t have one. I’m sorry.”

Michael sighed. “I’m sorry too. I know you’re already low. I don’t mean to pick on you. It’s just – well, you know why that can’t happen, Donald. It just can’t. I mean, I guess it works for those old guys, but they’re too old to be arrested in their own home for sodomy and you’re not. You’ve got to think of something else for your life.”

“You keep bringing up sex. I’m not talking about that,” Donald insisted. “Physicality isn’t everything.”

“It’s not nothing,” Michael muttered, turning back to the shelves. He could hear Donald getting up off the couch behind him and walking over.

“Michael.”

“What?” Michael asked flippantly, dusting like his life depended on it.

“Put the duster down. Look at me.” Donald was rarely this commanding, and it was unnerving. Michael turned. Donald was looking at him intently, and it burned. “Michael,” Donald said slowly, looking down at his own hands and back at the other man. “I want to touch you. Can I?”

Michael swallowed thickly. “What are you even talking about, Donald?”

“I want to touch you but you never let me. You always pull away, or slap my hand, or push me off.” Donald was rubbing one thumb into the palm of his other hand now, his hands twitching a little, and his voice was so sincere Michael thought his heart might just fall out of his body onto the floor.

Michael opened his mouth to say _I don’t know what you mean_ , to try to brush the moment off like he always did, but for some reason this time he could not force the lie to come out. Nothing came out but an exhale, and he felt his head nodding frantically, an involuntary action. “Yes. Okay. Yes,” he choked out, barely.

Donald reached one hand up to stroke Michael’s temple, the other reaching for Michael’s side, squeezing Michael’s hip lightly as he pulled them closer together. He looked so deeply into Michael’s eyes that it was almost unbearable, but the thought of closing his own eyes was unbearable to Michael as well. And then – _oh God_ – and then Donald’s hands moved into Michael’s hair and around his back and he kissed Michael gently on each cheek, and then on his neck, a little more roughly and urgently, and then – _oh God_ – his lips.

It had been so many years and Michael had probably imagined this moment at least once every day, but it had never occurred to him that Donald would feel different. They were just boys then, he realized, and they were men now, with more strength and more experience and more pain. Donald’s mouth was both softer and more insistent than he remembered, and now that he could feel Michael’s body melting into him, he was deepening the kiss, and his tongue was grazing Michael’s –

Michael pulled back abruptly, in shock. “Donald I think you’re drunk,” he sputtered out all in one quick phrase.

The disappointment in Donald’s face, and in the way his frame slumped, would have broken Michael’s heart if he had been able to look at it. Michael stared only at the floor, though, and crossed his arms in front of him defensively.

Donald rubbed the back of his head, looked away with a sigh, then back at Michael. “Yeah, that’s it. Christ. Am I drunk,” he said flatly, but when Michael forced himself to meet Donald’s eyes again, he had to admit Donald didn’t look or sound drunk at all. He seemed dead sober, in fact. “I’d better go home and sleep it off.”

They didn’t exchange many more words before Donald left, but Michael called Emory and cancelled o the baths trip the minute he was out of the door, and he didn’t sleep a wink that night.

Michael decided not to call him the day after that. Donald was no doubt feeling humiliated about whatever insane inebriated impulse had caused him to do that, and if Michael had been in his position he’d have wanted some time to work through The Icks about it. He expected Donald would call up eventually and apologize for being drunk and silly (he tried not to think about how Donald had really only had a couple of drinks that night) and testing their friendship. They could laugh it off like it meant nothing, which really, Michael told himself, it hadn’t. Just a sentimental moment between old friends when one of them is in a blue mood. It happens.

But after three days of not hearing from Donald, Michael couldn’t take it anymore, and picked up the phone to dial. After two more weeks of Donald either not answering, or only being able to chat for a minute – not long enough to get into anything serious -- before he had to go run some mysterious errand, Michael thought he’d just pop over to Donald’s apartment without calling, in the Southern style, and bring him pastries and coffee and see if they could work through whatever awkwardness this was.

When he got there, Donald’s boxes were already packed, and the talk Michael wanted to have that day went by the wayside, replaced by a conversation that he had never wanted to have at all.

***

Back to his parents’ house in Connecticut Donald goes, then, taking Michael’s heart with him. Back to the parents who had always suspected that their pretty little boy with his flashing blue eyes and soft dark curls, who always had to be trained very carefully how to sit and stand and hold himself and move his hands, might someday “fail to launch” – and if they were being honest with themselves, they’d always fully known the reason why, as well. Donald’s father never acknowledged or commented on such things, but once, Donald’s mother’s sister had asked her gently and diplomatically if she didn’t think that perhaps she was being a bit too overbearing about policing Donald’s mannerisms, and if doing so might not have the opposite effect she intended, by causing him to investigate or question things about himself that he shouldn’t. “He’s too pretty to risk it”, Donald’s mother snapped harshly, and no one ever had the nerve to ask her about it again.

She welcomed Donald home with open arms, coddling him as she always did, thereby planting a seed of doubt in him that made him wonder if she ever really thought he could succeed at anything, even managing the basics of his own life. His father simply grunted and said he’d better get some kind of job if he expected to stay under their roof. They were paying the therapy bills now, so Donald didn’t have much choice but to comply.

So, Donald – one of the most intellectual people Michael had ever met -- was cleaning houses five days a week in Connecticut, and Michael was living for Saturday nights, when Donald might come into the city if he could come up with a way to lure him in. But he was running out of reasons. He’d already bought tickets to every play or film Donald “just had to see” and taken him out to dinner at every new restaurant he “just had to try” and there were only so many hot new books released that were available at the bookstores in NYC weeks before they trickled out to Connecticut. He knew he was getting desperate when he persuaded Donald to come to Harold’s birthday party.

“Really?” Donald said over the phone. “Did he ask for that? I’m not exactly one of his favorite people.”

“He’s really depressed lately, Donald.” Michael tried to keep his tone from veering into actual begging. It was true that Harold probably wouldn’t be all that pleased to see Donald, but it was also true that it was hard to get Harold to agree to get up out of his bathtub and do anything social these days. If they even got him to show up, he’d probably only stay for two hours at most, and that meant more alone time with Donald, especially if Donald spent the night. Michael would bend the truth about anything if it meant waking up to Donald. “I’m worried about him. It’d be good for him to see some familiar, safe faces.”

“I guess.” Donald still sounded very skeptical. “I do have a therapy appointment that afternoon, so I suppose I could stick around for a few hours after that.”

Michael’s heart soared. “Whatever. Just be there. I need you.” That last sentence slipped out before he could stop it. “I mean, I need your help. You know how high maintenance these queens can be!” And he proceeded to chatter on mindlessly about how he needed to get special hors d’ouevres and flowers and all the rest of it, and hoped Donald’s silence in response just meant he was listening and hadn’t been stunned by Michael’s admission. Perhaps, Michael convinced himself as he gabbed on, he hadn’t even noticed.

***

And now Michael was running. At first he didn’t know where. He just felt like running, even though he didn’t have the right shoes on and his feet already hurt, he was going to give himself blisters. It didn’t matter. He had wasted too much time, spent too much energy, run away too many times for too long. And why?

He’d blamed the terrible events of this night on Alan, a man he’d envied for too long for all the wrong reasons, because he was living the shadow life Michael had thought he should have been living. He’d had a nagging voice in his head for years telling him that he should have married Fran after all, pumped out those kids, made his mother happy, ensured his inheritance, gotten some boring lucrative job, bought a big fancy house in the suburbs. If Alan could do it, why couldn’t he?

But tonight had taught him that no one can do it, not without ending in sheer misery, and not without dragging everyone around them down with them. And he was already close enough to drowning as it was.

No. He didn’t want to go back to the bottle, the lies, the closet. He’d been standing half-in and half-out for all these years, and it was time to step out and leave that shadow life all the way behind now.

He knew where he was running to now, where he had been running all along, to the life he wanted. He could only hope Donald was still waiting for him, with the lights still on, when he got there.


End file.
